


OZ Series Palm of God's Hand

by terma_archivist



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Language, M/M, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-01
Updated: 1999-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: This is what I think happened between Beecher and O'Reilly in those early days.
Relationships: Tobias Beecher/Ryan O'Reily
Collections: TER/MA





	1. Palm of God's Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> First in a series of related stories. Comments: This is dedicated to the lovely Amy who continues to support me, even when I think I suck. Thanks also to ShugRee and Alexa for encouragement. Beta by Amy and Orithian.

  
**Palm of God's Hand  
by Nicole S**

  
Ryan O'Reilly flipped the page of the colourful travel brochure on Barcelona, coming to a page of men standing atop one another making a human pyramid. Another page revealed a strange building, windows rounded and distorted, looking like a huge acid trip. He turned the page again and stared at the unusual sculptures and glowing pillars of the Olympic esplanade. 

_Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to this place._

Ryan placed the glossy brochure aside before wiping himself and flushing the toilet. He had gotten five new brochures today: Barcelona, Athens, Rome, Nice and Monaco. He started with Barcelona, mainly for the smiling, half-naked woman on the cover. As with most of the brochures he received, he used them for a dual purpose. One to amuse him while sitting on the head, the other to amuse him while still youthful amounts of testosterone ran through his veins and straight down to his cock almost every night. 

He looked out the glass wall of the pod, just in time to see Beecher walk by in lipstick and eyeliner. Ryan shook his head and flopped down on his bunk, thinking of Spain and the beautiful woman on the cover of the brochure. Soon, his mind wandered back to the ex-lawyer, as it frequently did. Why the fuck did Beecher allow himself to be treated this way? Why did he let that Nazi fuck walk all over him, let him make him his prag? Why didn't Ryan help Beecher stop it? 

_Yeah, what the fuck am I gonna do? I help him and I'm a prag by association. No thanks._

In the beginning, when he first arrived in Oz, O'Reilly had seen Beecher sitting with those Aryan shitheads, and he knew he didn't belong with them. He watched as Beecher did that fuck Schillinger's laundry, among other things, and knew just what was going on. He observed him for a couple of weeks, watching him from around corners and through the windows of his pod. He likened him to a squirrel trying to dodge traffic, darting back and forth, trying not to get his ass squished into the pavement. Unfortunately for Beecher, Schillinger had not only run him over, but backed up a couple of times for good measure. 

Ryan had gone to Beecher in the library for his own benefit; he wanted his case appealed—that's what he told himself, anyway. In reality, Tobias Beecher, former lawyer and upstanding citizen, intrigued him. Deep down he knew his appeal was a lost cause but wanted Beecher to give it a shot anyway. 

When he looked at him, something tugged at a feeling deep down in Ryan O'Reilly that had remained hidden from everyone, even himself. He had pushed it deep down again to rest in the pit of his stomach as he walked away from the library, confident Beecher would do everything to help him. O'Reilly could tell; that was just the kind of guy Beecher was. 

When O'Reilly saw Beecher licking that Nazi shit's boots off with his tongue, he nearly gagged himself. That asshole sure knew how to humiliate people. He watched Beecher, down on his hands and knees, licking old Vern's boots, fuming on the inside. Was this any way for a lawyer, his new lawyer, to act? 

Later, in Beecher's pod, O'Reilly felt that twinge from deep down again. He pushed it aside, but it came right back again. He looked at Beecher, face swollen from crying, eyes puffy, even after being splashed with cold water. He actually felt sorry for the poor bastard. Sorry like when you look at someone who had been crippled or maimed in an accident. Like it was tough luck what happened to them, but it was partially their own fault anyway. Ryan immediately saw a friend in the making, someone that wouldn't challenge him, someone who wouldn't fuck with him. Someone just dying to get high. 

And Beecher didn't fuck with him or challenge him. Except for with Keane. He didn't listen to a word he said when it came to that. He just _had_ to go into PC to find out about Keane. When O'Reilly told him not to get involved, or he'd be next, he wasn't only telling him the truth, he was trying to warn him as a friend, although he'd never admit that fact. 

Beecher told him his case really sucked, something O'Reilly already knew. He did admire that Beecher had looked at it and had tried to help him. Now there was only one thing to do - get high. That first time he offered Beecher heroin, he felt like a virgin on his wedding night. He swung in behind Beecher on the bottom bunk, his knee touching Beecher's thigh. Then he put his arm on Beecher's and leaned forward as the ex-lawyer sniffed the powder off of his hand. Ryan then licked the residue off, the drug turning his tongue numb. He snorted some himself, pressing his hand to his face as the sensations overwhelmed him. 

Suddenly, Beecher leaned back into him, surprising O'Reilly more than anything. Ryan leaned forward and placed his head against Beecher's shoulder for just a minute. Beecher was shaking, laughing, making Ryan laugh with him. Together, they fell into a laughing mass of limbs on the cot, until Beecher rolled off onto the floor. Ryan thought this was hysterical. He leaned over the side of the cot, looking down at Beecher sprawled on the concrete floor, his chest heaving with his gasping breath. 

Ryan reached over to help him up, grabbing onto his t-shirt, but was unable to pull him up due to the laughter that still consumed him. He pulled on the shirt, hearing it rip, before he fell out of the cot on top of Beecher. Both men were hysterical by now, roars coming out of their mouths, until one of the guards banged on the window. Ryan looked over at him and waved him off, as he tried to stand up. It wasn't easy, Beecher was holding onto him. The guard walked away, leaving Ryan, half kneeling over Beecher whose arm was still snaked around his waist. He looked down into the eyes looking up at him, a sea of blue meeting his own. He stumbled up again, this time successful as he used the bed to pull himself to his feet. He stuck his hand out to Beecher, who grabbed it and pulled himself up, to lean against Ryan. Beecher stumbled into him, bringing them face to face, within millimetres of each other. Ryan could smell Beecher, a mixture of freshly laundered clothes and talcum powder, with a little bit of mint mouthwash thrown in. Ryan licked his lower lip and leaned forward just slightly. Their lips pressed together for a brief second before laughter consumed them again. Then count was called and it was over, just like that. 

While O'Reilly was in the hole, he thought about what had happened, dismissing it as an effect of being totally fucked up on tits. He knew it should have bothered him more than it did, that he wasn't a fucking fag, he was married for Christ sakes. There was just something about Beecher that made him not really care about it. 

When he got out of the hole, he went right back to hanging with him and snorting tits. Snorting with Beecher, hugging Beecher, spinning around in circles with Beecher. There was always contact, his arm around him, "Hey man, wanna get high?" Elation when he said yes, disappointment when he said no. 

This particular time, he said yes. They held on to each other tight, mostly to keep from falling over, but somehow it was more than that. Beecher's hand came up to caress Ryan's back, his thumb rubbing against his shoulder blade. Ryan's arm was around Beecher's shoulders, squeezing the one under his hand. 

Ryan moved away slightly, not wanting to encourage any further contact, then slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Beecher followed to sit beside him, their thighs rubbing together as they snorted another hit. Suddenly the whole length of their legs was pressing together. Ryan could feel his cock harden between his legs and shifted slightly to accommodate the growing member. It didn't help. He moved his knees up to his chest and spread his legs, which gave him some relief. 

He noticed Beecher was giggling again, then his forehead was digging into his shoulder. Ryan moved his hand up to move his head away; but found himself stroking Beecher's hair instead, marveling at the softness of it. Beecher leaned into his touch; his eyes closed as Ryan moved his hand down to the nape of his neck. Beecher then sat up and looked him in the eye, a silly grin on his face. 

Ryan looked back at him, his eyes heavy lidded, his mouth sporting his familiar grin. He leaned his head back against the sole concrete wall in his pod, grateful for its coolness against his back; it was getting way too hot in here. Suddenly, there was a hand on his thigh, squeezing, and another hand on his face, thumb stroking his lower lip. Ryan's eyes snapped open to reveal Beecher's face in front of his. He licked his lips, brushing Beecher's in the process. Beecher's lips came around the tip of his tongue, sucking it inside his mouth; then he was gone, standing, stumbling outside for count. Ryan could just barely drag himself up and out the door for count, the hard-on in his chinos and the drugs making it almost impossible for him to stand upright. After count, he flopped onto his bunk, moaning into his pillow softly, until he took care of himself, swiftly and with practice. 

* * *

Ryan was organizing his travel brochures, undecided if he wanted to read about Barcelona or Thailand, when Beecher came into his pod, his hands under his armpits, looking paranoid. He showed Ryan the ridiculous Confederate flag Schillinger had made him wear. Ryan wanted to rip it off of his body and burn the fucking thing but didn't want to get involved. The last thing he needed was those Nazi motherfuckers mad at him; he might need them later. Instead, he remained cool. 

"Well, if you gotta go, you gotta go high." 

Beecher nodded at him, licking his lips. 

"You ever try PCP?" 

"No. What's it like?" 

Ryan put his arm around Beecher's shoulders, "With this angel dust, you'll be sitting in the palm of God's hand in no time." 

Beecher smiled and took the small vial from O'Reilly, his mouth twisted into that silly little grin again. He snorted a healthy amount of the powder, then gave it back to O'Reilly, who also snorted a large dose. 

Beecher got this funny look on his face, then his mouth opened and closed like a fish, before he rubbed the side of his head. "O'Reilly, this is good shit." 

"'Course it is." Ryan's voice huskier than usual. 

"It feels...feels fucking good." 

Ryan rubbed up and down Beecher's arm, "Feel that? The delay you get?" 

Beecher looked down at his arm, convinced Ryan's hand was still there. He looked up at Ryan, emotions fluttering over his face, before it settled on a confused look. 

Laughter sprang from Ryan's mouth in loud, slow waves, feeling like some slow motion movie. Everything was magnified: the arm around Beecher's shoulders felt like it was 100 yards long; the laughter coming out of his mouth sounded too loud, too low; the sight of Beecher, his eyes looking all the more blue, his skin all the more pale; the smell of him, that talcy-man/boy smell that Ryan would always associate with this man. He could feel Beecher's muscles ripple under his arm as he started to laugh, his voice sounding loud and tinny. Ryan licked his lips; he could still taste that last cigarette he snuck half an hour ago. 

Together they laughed, hysterical laughter, until a hack came by, banging on the window, telling them to shut up. They separated for a minute, stoic expressions replacing the full out grins before the hack gave them a disapproving grimace and left. 

They stood, not speaking or moving for a few seconds that felt like hours, before a tear fell down to land on Ryan's cheek from the emotions held inside. He couldn't hold back and silent laughter came from within, his body shaking, head leaning forward to land on Beecher's shoulder. Only then the roar filled the air. 

He clutched at the front of Toby's shirt, that stupid Confederate flag shirt, the stars dancing before his eyes. He could feel the drug work through his body, every breath, every constriction of his vocal cords sending bolts of lightening through his nerve endings. He could almost feel the neurons in his brain talking to each other as Beecher's arms came around him. 

They stood there, Beecher holding them both up, his back braced against the wall, his arms around Ryan. Ryan's head came down to land on Beecher's shoulder, his forehead moving back and forth across the new-smelling black fabric of his t-shirt. 

Ryan started nuzzling Beecher's neck, eyes closed, his laughter down to mere giggles. He breathed in deeply and tried to move his head but couldn't. His lips were right on Beecher's neck, right at the jugular; he could feel the pulse beating under the fragile skin. Before he knew it, his lips were lightly kissing that point. His tongue flicked out for a second to lick at the salty skin. 

A laugh caught in the back of Beecher's throat as Ryan's kisses were finally felt. He held Ryan tighter, a soft moan replacing the giggles that had been heard mere seconds ago. 

Together they held each other, Ryan's hands still on Beecher's arms, Beecher's arms around him. Ryan was now consciously aware that his hips were moving, grinding into the man before him. He could feel his sudden erection press against the fabric of his underwear, and Beecher's erection pressed up against his. 

He forced himself to lift his head, to look into the sky blue gaze of the man that he had now pinned against the wall. Beecher's eyes were practically spinning in his head, the look on his face half way between pleasure and pain, unsure if he should be enjoying himself. Ryan shifted slightly to move away, but Toby held him fast. 

Ryan brought the vial up to his nose again and snorted before offering it to Beecher, who took another hit. 

"F-f-feels good, Ryan." 

"Yeah, feels good." 

"Better..." 

"He's a motherfucker, Beecher." 

"Motherfucker." 

Ryan was still grinding his crotch into Beecher's, every thrust now magnified a thousand times from the drugs. His balls felt ten feet wide; his dick felt like it filled the entire front of his pants. The feel of his cock bumped up against another sent jolts of energy up his spine, screaming into his brain. 

"Motherfucker," Beecher whispered. 

Ryan's lips smothered the word, fusing to the man's mouth before him. He could still smell him, the clean smell now mixed with the musk of male arousal. His hand came up to caress the soft, dirty blonde hairs at the nape of Beecher's neck. His tongue probed delicately past soft lips as his kiss deepened; a moan was heard by both men, neither really sure whom it came from. 

He sighed, overwhelmed by pleasant feelings as he thrust his aching cock against the bulge in Beecher's pants, wishing it were something more. He pulled his mouth off of Beecher's as he came with a grunt into his underwear, Beecher still moving his hips back and forth. 

"Motherfucker," Beecher whispered again. "Mother-FUCKER," as he crushed himself against Ryan's hip. He banged into him, screaming _Motherfucker_ until he stopped, shuddering, eyes closed, sweat on his upper lip.Ryan backed away to sit on the lower bunk, the orgasm he'd just had sending his brain into overload. He flopped onto his back, his arms over his head, relishing the tingling feeling zapping through every nerve ending. His heart felt like it was going to explode, and his brain, he swore, felt like it was going to pop out of his skull any second. 

Beecher leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, breathing hard. He slowly wiped the sweat from his lip and brow with his t-shirt, realizing again what had been emblazoned on the front. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he looked right into Ryan's eyes. "I've got something to do." He put his hands under his armpits to hide the rebel flag and walked out of O'Reilly's pod. 

Ryan lay there for what could have been minutes or hours. He knew he had a sticky mess in his crotch but couldn't deal with it right now. A commotion went unnoticed outside his pod, yelling, screaming was heard. For now, Ryan was content to lie on his bunk in a boneless sprawl until the drug wore off, dreaming of Barcelona. 

* * *

First in a series of related stories.   
Rating: NC-17 for strong language, copious amounts of drugs, and m/m sex—if you don't like it, don't read it!   
If you liked this, please tell me. [email removed]   
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, they belong to Fontana/Levinson, Rysher, HBO and some other people.   
Summary: This is what _I_ think happened between Beecher and O'Reilly in those early days.   
Comments: This is dedicated to the lovely Amy who continues to support me, even when I think I suck. Thanks also to ShugRee and Alexa for encouragement. Beta by Amy and Orithian.   
(5/99)   
---


	2. Lord of the Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what I think happened between Beecher and O'Reilly in those early days.

  
**Palm of God's Hand II**

Lord of the Dance  
by Nicole S 

  
Solitary confinement was lonely and boring. There weren't any books or television; there was no one to talk to. It was designed to make you think about what got you sent to solitary in the first place, not unlike when your mom sent you to your room when you were a kid. When you were little, that time, the afternoon, evening, whatever, seemed like days. But after the first hour or two, you'd start playing with your toys and forget that you were being punished. In solitary, there were no toys, and the time dragged even slower. 

For Ryan O'Reilly, however, solitary was a welcome change. A place where he could relax and get away from the chaos that had been surrounding him for some time. Finally, he had some peace and quiet while he formulated his plans without the usual interruptions. 

He had been in here a week and had started to almost enjoy himself. He didn't have to watch his back; he didn't have to watch out for other people; he just sat back and relaxed. It had taken a couple of days for him to get over the initial claustrophobia, slowly accepting the fact that he would be in this little cell for awhile. This wasn't the hole, though, and for that he was grateful. In here, you got fed and had a bed and a toilet and a sink and clothes. Compared to the hole, this place was the fucking Hilton. 

He heard a door clang down the hall and wondered who was being taken where for what. The hacks had dragged Adebisi away a few days ago, thank God. Ryan could hear him from the cell next door going nuts from lack of tits, singing that fucking jungle monkey song over and over again. Ryan had been just about to break through the wall and kill him himself when the hacks had busted in and taken him away. 

He had told Adebisi not to fuck himself up on tits during the riot; he told him that for his own good. Ryan had actually tried to be noble and help Adebisi, but he had ignored him flat out. Then again, when the hell had Adebisi ever listened to anyone? Ryan knew that the second they got locked down, there wouldn't be any drugs at all in this place. You probably couldn't even get a fucking aspirin right now. Ryan was smart; he had cut down on his tits, weaning himself off of them. He had used heroin as recreation, rather than a habit. Sure, he had told Adebisi he'd been clean since the hole, but he was trying to emphasize his point. Shit, Ryan had scored from Adebisi three days before he had said that to him. 

There had been something in the air the day the riot started. Everyone knew something was going to go down; they could all feel it. The tension was like a taut rope, stretched to its limit, ready to break. All it took was one tiny string to come loose; one little incident and it all unraveled. 

Damn, that was the first prison riot Ryan had ever been in. _I'll have to add that to my resume._ He snorted to himself as he thought of all the crazy shit that had happened that day. Take Scott Ross, for example. Now that had been funny. He fucking hated those Aryan bastards, but he knew he needed them to be on his side during the riot. He and Ross were just two guys doing their laundry, shooting the shit, and suddenly, he had the fucking Aryan Brotherhood backing him up. The AB were the last people Ryan ever counted on helping him out. Ryan snorted again; it sure had been fun kicking that guard's ass; he and Ross had fucked that guy up good. Now Ross was dead. Ryan didn't mind; Scott Ross was just another obstacle out of his way. 

Ryan's ears perked up; he could hear talking out in the hallway. He strained his ears to listen but couldn't hear what was being said. _That was probably that Case dude, talking to Said or something._

Case had been here twice to interview him; he had tried to get Ryan to spill his guts, but Ryan denied everything. Case had then tried to get under Ryan's skin, tried to make him angry by calling him and Ross lovers. Ryan had kept it cool and calmly stated to Case that he wasn't a fag, but if he were, he wouldn't fuck Ross because his dick was like a toxic waste dump. He had tried to make a deal, but he had no luck. He knew he would be pushing it by even suggesting a deal to get him out of solitary sooner. He did get his cigarette, however, and for that cigarette, he gave up Ross and Wittlesey. 

Ryan stood; his limbs were stiff from sitting so long. He stretched his arms over his head and then stretched his legs. The bad thing about being in this little room for 24 hours a day was that you were in this little room for 24 hours a day. He braced himself on his bunk and began doing push-ups, 50, before he switched to sit-ups, 100. He did this five or six times a day. You had to keep yourself in shape, or else you'd be weak when you got out of solitary. Ryan couldn't afford to be weak. 

Panting, he finished his workout, then sat down again, sweating; he wiped it off with his hand then wiped the moisture onto his pants. He wished he could go for a fucking walk or down to the dining hall or something. He had to get out of this cell; he had to do something, fucking play cards, anything. He thought he'd go nuts if he was in here one more.... 

_Calm down, O'Reilly, that's just what those hacks want you to do. They're just itching for you to freak out so they can lay the boots to you._

Ryan closed his eyes and leaned back against the cool concrete of the nearest wall. _I can do this. I can do this. I can do this._ he said to himself over and over. When he had been in the hole last time, he had totally freaked out. It hadn't helped matters any that he had been high and dried out in there. He shook his head as he remembered screaming for them to let him out, rolling along the walls, and lying in a fetal position on the floor. He had played it cool when they came to collect him, though. "Piece of cake," he had said. 

But this was different; this was sheer boredom designed to drive him crazy. He started to think of the relaxation tape that his wife had played when she had taken that stress management course. Stress management, breaking a nail was the biggest stress in her life. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and tried to think of a nice place, a beach maybe, with naked chicks frolicking, playing volleyball. The ladies were in fine form today, tits bouncing up and down, hitting the ball back and forth...yeah, their tits were jiggling all over the place. One of them dove for the ball but didn't get up after she hit it. It went over the net, and the other three girls still played, but the first girl was still on the ground. Ryan went over to her to see if she was okay, but then he started kicking her for some reason, then it wasn't the volleyball chick at all, it was that hack he and Ross had beat on. He watched him groan and spit blood before Ryan woke with a start. 

He blinked his eyes open. It was easy to fall asleep in here with nothing to stimulate your brain. Dammit, he needed his travel brochures! Every time he tried to think of the nice ladies playing volleyball, he got distracted. He sighed and rolled over onto his side. _I wonder how Beecher's doing in Gen Pop? It's probably a fucking zoo in there with everyone shoved together like cattle._

Beecher. Now there was a guy who had crossed the bridge and burnt it behind him. He had told him so himself, "I left the old Beecher in the hole." 

The day Beecher had gotten out of the hole for shitting in Schillinger's face had been bittersweet. As soon as Ryan saw him go into his pod, he had run right over there, acting cool as he crossed the quad so no one would know that his stomach fluttered with every step. He had missed Beecher and thought about him a lot. Particularly about what had happened between them that day in his pod, right before Beecher went postal and nearly poked old Vern's eye out. He dwelled on that a lot actually and got a burning in his chest when he thought of them writhing up against each other, kissing each other. Those memories came mostly at night, unfortunately, leaving him frustrated and needing to take care of himself, which he did, blushing the whole time, as if he were some school kid. He didn't want to get hard thinking about Beecher, but he couldn't help himself. 

Ryan had hoped things would go back to normal when Beecher got out of the hole. He had hoped that he and Beecher could hang out, snort tits together, laugh, and have fun. Once he saw Beecher again, though, he knew that wouldn't be possible; it was as if there was someone new in Beecher's body. It was like they had re-programmed his brain while he had been away. "How crazy are you?" he had asked. 

Ryan had leaned over Beecher's bunk and given him the most seductive look he had. He had been trying to get him to smile, to laugh, anything to show that he was normal. No dice. Beecher had started screaming at the Aryans, fucking _screaming_ at them, smacking the window, challenging them, giving them the fucking finger. This was not the same Beecher, all right; this was some fucking psycho-Beecher. After that, Ryan had moved in to put his arm around him to ask him how big his balls were. "Don't get so close to me," Beecher had said to him, nearly shaking, shocking Ryan all to hell. Ryan had calmly drawn his hand back, but it felt as if he had been smacked in the face. Then Beecher left his pod and screamed at Schillinger! He called him an _asswipe_ in front of everyone! Ryan was proud of him but scared as well. He didn't know how to talk to this psycho-Beecher; he didn't know what psycho-Beecher was capable of. He had to keep on psycho-Beecher's good side. It was true what he said; he needed him to be his brother. 

After the screaming incident, Ryan had left Beecher alone then went to do his laundry. Then that whole fucking crazy shit started and turned his world into the biggest mosh pit he had ever seen. Ryan had tried to get everyone organized, and it worked for awhile, but then it all fell apart. He swore he could feel an ulcer start in his gut as he heard the fucking bickering and bullshit between them all. They were supposed to be on the same fucking side, us against the hacks, but they had just ended up fighting each other. He had known that would happen, and he knew he would be lying to himself if he thought they could all have worked together. 

It had all gotten to be too much when Ryan and Said got into that scuffle. Beecher had been ready for action, just itching to bust some skulls; fuck, he pushed one of the goddamn Islamic dudes and had been ready to have a go at him if Ryan hadn't stopped him. Shit, Beecher must have grown some pretty big fucking balls in the hole. Then they had to tie up Adebisi and his crew...shit. Then the fucking lights went out. Ryan had been happy it had all been over soon after that; by then he was tired and needed a rest. 

Ryan sat up on his bunk and blushed as another thought went though his mind. There was something else that had happened that day; something just as crazy, just as nuts as everything else that had been going on. 

* * *

Ryan had just about had enough of the guys fighting and bickering and bitching at each other while they covered the gate. He wanted to get Said's gun and blow them all away himself. Every five fucking minutes something was going down between them, some goddamn fight, and he was sick of all of them. He had to get away from them for a breather. He didn't care if the hacks broke down the barricade and killed them all, because those assholes at the gate would go first! 

He stomped to the tiled shower area and to the back, where he knew he would be alone. He then slid down the wall in the far corner, sat on the floor and put his face in his hands for a few minutes. Reality seemed to hit him square in the gut right then; this wasn't going to end well at all. 

"Hey, man, wanna get high?" 

Ryan looked up and into the blue eyes he knew were Beecher's but seemed to belong to someone else now. Beecher's hand was in his pocket, ready to pull out the drugs and share. 

"No, man, I gotta keep alert. So should you." 

Beecher shrugged then sat down beside him. Ryan noticed that their knees and shoulders were pressed up against each other. 

"I haven't had any heroin in a long time," Beecher said, as he looked over at Ryan, "I don't think I need it anymore." 

Ryan licked the corner of his mouth, his tongue lingering for a moment before it scooted back into his mouth. "Then why do you have tits in your pocket?" 

Beecher shrugged again, "I don't know. I stole it off of Wangler." 

Ryan laughed, "You stole Wangler's tits? How the hell did you do that?" 

"If people think that you're crazy, they won't question you if you bump into them." 

Ryan laughed again. "You are one sick son of a bitch. You know what's going to happen to Wangler once he comes down? He's going to be jonesin' for those tits so bad that he'll probably drink his own piss to catch the residue." 

Beecher had started to laugh at that remark, and so did Ryan. They turned into the giggling mass that they had turned into so many times before. It felt good to be laughing with him again; it felt good to be near him again, touching him again. They calmed down and sat there for a minute in silence. Ryan knew that there was still some of the old Beecher in there, but not much; he might as well take what he could get. Then again, having a totally fucked up psycho for a friend would be interesting. 

"Look, I'm sorry about before...." Beecher started 

"Hey, no problem. You just got out of the hole." Ryan cut him off. 

Beecher continued, "...because I like you close to me. I want you close to me." 

Ryan sat in stunned silence as Beecher turned to him and brought his hand up to cup his chin. 

"I want us to get as close as possible." Beecher moved in and planted a kiss on Ryan's lips, his eyelashes brushing Ryan's as his eyes closed. 

Ryan leaned into the kiss and put his hands on Beecher's shoulders. This was so much better than last time. Being sober, he would actually remember every detail this time, not just hazy memories of kissing and coming into his pants. He closed his eyes and melted against the other man; it had been so long and this was so sweet. He didn't hesitate with the kisses and threw all he had into them; somehow it felt so right. 

Slowly, their kissing intensified and Ryan took Beecher's tongue into his mouth, sucking on it, nibbling on the corner of his mouth. His cock had suddenly hardened and pressed against the fabric of his underwear, and he shifted to accommodate the bulge. He leaned over and kissed down Beecher's neck, his beard scratching his cheek as he went. Beecher's clean smell enveloped him, Ivory soap and talcum, with that minty fresh undertone he always had. Good hygiene had not been forgotten after all that time in the hole. 

Ryan's mouth moved down to the divot at the base of Beecher's neck. His tongue lapped up the salty sweat that had started to form on Beecher's body. Suddenly, his head was pulled up, and his mouth was forced to meet the lips of the other man again. His tongue probed the moist interior before him, his breathing heavy as he let out a soft moan. He felt his shirt being lifted up and off, and he let Beecher run his tongue over his nipples and down to nuzzle the sparse hair on his belly. 

Ryan moved his hands up, under Beecher's t-shirt, and pulled on his nipples, hearing the other man gasp from his touch. He took Beecher's t-shirt off and threw it in a corner. He rolled them over so Ryan was on top, still kissing Beecher, still pinching his nipples. His hips were working against Beecher's, grinding into him, feeling a load of pre-cum shoot out to the tip of his cock. He was so hard; he couldn't imagine a time recently when he had been harder. 

Beecher moved his hands down to undo Ryan's chinos, pulling the fabric back to reveal his dripping erection. He grasped it in his hand and started to stroke it, his thumb pressing on the spot at the back, just under the head. Ryan pulled off of Beecher's mouth, arched his neck back and cried out, biting his lower lip to keep from coming. 

"Fuck me, Ryan," Beecher moaned. 

Ryan didn't hear him at first; he could only hear his pulse, which hummed like a Mac truck through his veins and made his ears ring. Then the hand suddenly stopped moving, and Ryan looked down at the man below him. "What?" 

"Fuck me," Beecher whispered. 

Ryan didn't know what to say; he had never had a guy ask him that before, so he remained silent. He watched as Beecher undid his pants and slipped them off, showing Ryan his large, hard cock as he knelt on the floor. He then reached over to a hair conditioner bottle lying abandoned on the floor. Ryan watched intently as Beecher squirted some of the fluid onto his hand to coat his fingers with it. Beecher then reached back to prepare himself. 

Ryan knelt on the floor as well, his own hard cock jutting out from his body, his balls heavy and aching to release their pressure. He watched as Beecher moved his fingers in and out of his ass as he prepared himself, making himself wider for Ryan. Finally, Beecher lay on the floor and pulled his knees up to his chest, exposing himself, the act telling Ryan that he was ready. 

Ryan now hesitated. What the hell was he doing? He wasn't a fag; he didn't do things like this. He'd never done this before, anyway. But he was naked...and Beecher was naked...and he was so excruciatingly hard...Ryan looked at him, the old Beecher was there with a plea in his eyes. "Fuck me," he whispered again. How could he say no? 

Ryan felt like he was in a dream as he positioned himself at the entrance of Beecher's hole. He applied an ample amount of fluid from the conditioner bottle to his cock then slowly pushed inside. He moaned as he entered the other man, one agonizing inch at a time. The heat and smoothness that sheathed his cock was like nothing else he'd ever felt before. 

With one more push, he was in to the hilt, his balls flush with the other man's ass cheeks. He looked down at Beecher, whose cock dripped pearly white drops onto his belly. He had this look on his face like he was in sheer heaven. Ryan felt pretty good too; he hadn't had actual intercourse with anyone in so long, he thought he'd forgotten how. He leaned over and braced his arms on either side of the panting man below him before he kissed him. 

Slowly, Ryan pulled out of Toby, then pushed back in. _Yeah, he's Toby now._ It felt so fucking good; he couldn't believe he had been deprived of actual physical sex for so long. His hips started to move faster as he rocked his body back and forth, grunting with every thrust. He closed his eyes as his orgasm hit, longevity a non-factor when it had been so long. He could feel Toby's come spurt up and onto his belly as the man shuddered beneath him; his own body released its fluid deep into Toby's ass. He thrust a few more times to milk his cock, then collapsed onto Toby, breathing hard into his shoulder. 

They stayed like that for a minute, before Ryan pulled out of Toby and rolled to the side, still gasping for air. Beecher moved over to nuzzle his cheek for a second, kissing him with tenderness before he reached for his clothes. 

Silently, both men got dressed and lingered for a moment before they went out to join the chaos again. 

* * *

Ryan sighed to himself in his cell. That seemed like it was a year ago. He'd been thinking about it a lot. Thinking about the consequences if he and Beecher...Toby...were to go on like this once they all got back together in Em City. No, there was no way in fucking hell Ryan was going to let that happen. That was a one shot deal, and it would never ever happen again. He had a reputation to keep intact. 

No, Ryan O'Reilly was going to chalk this up as a life experience and tuck it away in the back of his brain, like he did with all the other shit. He had to focus on someone else, his wife, chicks, to get off, not Tobias Beecher. 

The lights went out, signaling that it was time to sleep. Ryan leaned back on his bunk and put his hands behind his head. _Yeah, gotta find some chick...any chick._ He closed his eyes and willed the naked women playing volleyball to invade his dreams again. If he concentrated on the sound of the beach, the feel of the sand, they would come. It worked. He had visions of buxom blonde and brunette ladies bouncing before him. One of the blondes dove for the ball and thrust it upward into the air before her partner sent it soaring out of bounds. The brunette then served, and the ball came back toward the blonde, who had suddenly turned into a naked Tobias Beecher, spiking the ball over the net as Ryan drifted off to sleep. 

The end 

* * *

OZ Beecher/O'Reilly   
Series/Sequel: Second in a series of related stories.   
Sequel to Palm of God's Hand.   
by Nicole S.   
Rating: NC-17 for strong language and graphic m/m sex—that's slash, kiddies, if you don't like it, don't read it!   
If you liked this, please tell me. [email removed]   
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, they belong to Fontana/Levinson, Rysher, HBO and some other people.   
Summary: A riot interlude.   
Comments: Thanks to the ever so lovely Amy B., who feeds my madness, puts up with my horrible first drafts, and makes sure I answer my own questions. Without her, this story would be crap!   
(6/99)   
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